Those Red Mornings

10-30-2004

My back needs time to settle.

The brain-spitting insaneness;

who could gag that?

The eyes don’t need to open,

even to see the depths of this.

I resent the mornings… All of them!

I can only associate the feeling

with the color of my favorite boots.

My hand is laced to the pillow;

fingers compulsively gripping

air pockets and excess fabric.

My morning skies are black;

they only turn pink

when I am not looking.

I retreat to my blankets when I hear that¾

It cuts into my dreams

and forces me to pretend,

that I am crossing into lighted rooms.

But still

somebody forgot to wake me up.